Leaving the office on my lunch hour to pick up ingredients for my mother's favorite fudge recipe, I am struck by the gloom of the darkening afternoon sky. A car sloshes through the alley where I walk, splashing icy water against my leg.

At the grocery store, an all-too-anxious driver slips into a parking space I was waiting for, and as I stand in line at the checkout counter, a cashier grumbles when a blast of cold air rips through the doorway, where two women pause to exchange holiday greetings.

Where is the spirit of Christmas? I wonder. Shouldn't the holidays be a time of peace and goodwill?

Even the store's decorations — a cutout Santa Claus, sparkling tinsel and piped-in Christmas music — seem to mock the spirit of the season. Aren't they just a ploy to make me spend more than I can afford?

As I hurry through the crowded market, my thoughts turn to Mother, the family fudge maker. She won't be preparing brightly wrapped boxes of black walnut fudge for the family this year, as she did for so many years. A severe stroke has confined her to a nursing home, for the most part unaware of her own surroundings. When I visited her last month, her sunken eyes and vacant look were a reminder of her mortality, and of mine.

In my own home, the Christmas preparations schedule is off kilter. I've done very little shopping, which worries the children; no baking, which worries my sweet-toothed husband; and little decorating, which doesn't seem to bother anyone but me.

Putting up the Christmas tree was also a bust. On the day my husband hooked up the old trailer and drove to a nearby farm to get the tree, we wondered aloud how long we would continue the ritual, now that our children are no longer a part of holiday preparations. The tree stood against the living room wall for several days before we placed it in its stand. That evening, I strung some lights. Several days later, we added the ornaments.

Is it all worth it? I wonder.

To heighten my melancholia, memories of happier Christmases haunt me: when putting up the tree meant listening to my favorite songs as I handed ornaments to the children, explaining the significance of each; when gift-giving meant taking time to make something special, instead of purchasing gift cards, our stock answer to most all our Christmas giving; and when enjoying holiday treats meant eating Grandma's black-walnut fudge.

Why has the magic of Christmas failed to find its way into my heart? Does the spirit of the holidays elude others, or is everyone else really caught up in the merriment of the season?

Looking around at the faces in the store, I see others worn down by the incessant gaiety. The old man, shivering against the cold in his threadbare jacket; the overworked mom scurrying to do last-minute shopping, a child in her arms, another one in tow.

How does one transcend the contrived festivities of the season and recapture the spirit that is Christmas? How I long for the quiet of winter, a time to heal.

Linda K. Schmitmeyer is a freelance writer living in Middlesex Township. Her e-mail address is lks@zoominternet.net.